


Little Miracles

by SabineMichaelis



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 14:43:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10165262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SabineMichaelis/pseuds/SabineMichaelis
Summary: The world ended three days ago and our favorite supernatural beings have no idea what to do next. Well, Crowley has an idea.





	

“What do we do now?” 

The world had ended three days ago, so Crowley was having a drink. 

Not an alcoholic drink; he had consumed a large enough quantity of those over the past few days that even he was suffering from a hangover. Admittedly, he could not be certain if it was more of a failed-Armageddon hangover or a there’s-more-alcohol-in-my-veins-than-blood hangover. Still, Aziraphale was plying him with herbal tea. 

After the kerfuffle in Tadfield, the two almost certainly unemployed supernatural beings had collapsed into the Bentley and driven to the nearest hotel. The young lady at the front desk had wanted to say something about the way the two had stumbled across the lobby in the middle of the afternoon, but Crowley’s sleek black credit card silenced any and all objections. 

They had slumped from the lobby to the lift to the room—neither could fathom being alone at that moment—and immediately drained the mini-bar. Then, Crowley had called room service and ordered one of everything off the wine list. 

The question, which had been snorkeling through their inebriated brains for seventy-two hours now, was finally voiced by Aziraphale. Crowley did not respond right away, instead letting the question hang in the air with the stale scent of alcohol. 

After all, it was the kind of question that Crowley had spent a few thousand years trying to avoid. He slowly circled the lip of the plain ceramic mug with his finger. It made the most delicate of noises.

“Let’s get married.” He said, suddenly.

For a moment, it seemed like Aziraphale had not heard him. That was unfortunate, because Crowley was not the sort to repeat himself (especially when he had said something that might have been very stupid). Calmly, the angel lifted his own cup to his lips, sipped daintily, winced slightly at the taste, and set the cup back down on the coffee table. 

“Why the sudden proposal?” he inquired after a moment, turning his piercing gaze on the demon. Crowley swallowed, doing his best to maintain eye contact and keep his demeanor light.

“Well, after a few millennia it does seem to be about time...” he drawled. “Making an honest man out of me and all that...” He kept trailing off. Why did he keep trailing off? You would think that a lifetime of charm and deception would make this easier. Aziraphale could certainly tell how flustered he was becoming and the corner of his mouth quirked. Sadistic angel.

“But,” Aziraphale responded after the silence drew long, “Aren't betrothed couples usually in love?”

Ah, yes. There was that; the ever-present unspoken aspect of their relationship that was not part of The Arrangement. And Crowley did not even know if the angel felt the same way that he (almost certainly, probably definitely, slightly unwillingly, incomprehensibly, miraculously) did, so he employed his one of his wiles (with a lower-case ‘w’) and simply replied,

“And?”

Aziraphale chuckled, “Oh.”

A very tiny part of Crowley (a part that he did not often admit existed) was a little disappointed at the way Aziraphale was taking this. Perhaps, after spending so much time with Crowley, Aziraphale had simply forgotten what other demons were like, so he could not properly appreciate what Crowley was doing (or offering to do) for him. He wouldn’t call it  _ monumental _ per se, but it was a Thing with a capital T. Demons did not do  _ feelings _ and they certainly did not voluntarily go in public before  _ God _ and declare those feelings to be there. Busy inside his own head, Crowley did not notice that Aziraphale was looking intently at him or that his smile had faded and his eyes had widened. Nor did he see Aziraphale’s mouth open in surprise as he examined Crowley’s countenance and found something unexpected there. Crowley paid no attention as Aziraphale gasped like a fish out of water until he emitted a breathy:

“Oh.” Followed by yet another 

“Oh!” Which was very different from the first.

“Oh.” He murmured a fourth time.

With each successive exclamation, his cheeks grew rosier. By the time Crowley tuned in, having decided that the best thing to do about his gaffe was nothing at all, Aziraphale was blushing like, well, a cherub. Crowley stood and clapped briskly,

“Do stop saying oh, Aziraphale, and say yes. Substitute “dinner at the Ritz” if you like. Either way, we really ought to leave this hotel room.

The angel (cherub) beamed,

“I’d love to, my dear.”

They were halfway back to London before Aziraphale clarified what he had agreed to.


End file.
